


Atrophy

by spicycronch



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: Gen, Hero remembers the WoMB, Post-Ending AU, RGB doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicycronch/pseuds/spicycronch
Summary: "No matter the manner in which they leave- be it by failure or success- those who do will not remember this world.Even if it remembers them."Post-ending AU.





	Atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe someday I'll write something other than AU's.

_ You’re Roy, you’re in your bedroom, it’s 12:45 AM and you’re waiting for sleep to come. _

It worries you sometimes, how she knows things about you that you don’t know about yourself. If you’re completely honest, half of what you know seems out of place. Little things, mostly, but the reverberations of a memory half-forgotten. There are some things of which you are certain. Hero is your daughter, that will never change. The way you cannot remember anything about adopting Hero, about anything when she was younger scares you. There are certain undeniable facts- she was homeschooled for her first two years of primary, you knew her and had managed to earn her trust before she came to live with you. Those facts didn’t add up. When you enrolled her, her birth certificate said eight while your brain screamed that she was no older than six and a half. She maintains was not hurt or abandoned by them, yet she cannot remember her father’s face or her mother’s voice. When she was older, wiser, you asked her about those fantasies. She wrinkled her nose and maintained that they were real. If they were real, then how did she come to live with you? She said she didn’t know, ranted about climbing up through the clouds and said  _ you _ always loved copying Mary Poppins. The way she says you is not you, but this other. You felt a burn in your chest and let the subject drop.

Sometimes you feel like a replacement. Hero is obviously trying her best to keep you separated from the  _ other _ , but things slip. It would almost be easier if she admitted it or implied that there was a distinct separation, but the distance between  _ he wouldn’t have _ and  _ you wouldn’t have _ is an insurmountable chasm to cross. 

_ Who was I? _ is just as scary as  _ Who am I? _ but you can’t figure out either answer. You try to imagine this other when the loneliness becomes too much to bear. Parts of the  _ other _ are easy to imagine. Gloves. Gaudy clothes. An oily residue that feels like it’s just on this side of blood. It has no skin between its hands and its cuffs and nothing to hold it together. Try as you might, you cannot imagine the other’s face. You don’t know why the  _ other _ comes to you in the form as a monster, either as a wicked entertainer masquerading as kind or as an honest fiend. You’re a little afraid of what that implies about the man you see in the mirror.

 

_ Your name is Roy, you’re in your apartment, it’s 9:03 AM and you’re watching after your daughter. _

You see her tape pieces of colored paper- yellow then blue then green then pink then red- to the television. It would make you upset, but the expression on her face is far too haunted for an eight year old. She looks like the fate of the entire world is resting on her shoulders as she sits in front of the blank screen and tries not to cry. You watch her from the hallway too afraid to disturb, as if you’ll shatter something important if you break the silence. 

“Where are you,” she whispers. You can’t bear the heartbreak and wrap your arms around her. She cries at the sound of your footsteps and covers her face with her sleeves, falls asleep against your chest. 

She doesn’t turn on the television again.

 

_ You’re Roy, you’re in the driver’s seat of your car, it’s 10 AM and you’re driving your daughter to the airport. _

She visits you for Christmas. She cannot afford to splurge beyond flying back home, so instead she gifts you with one of her paintings. She looks hopeful when you take it and admire the craftsmanship. It’s a still life, a more advanced version of the childish drawings that crowded the corners of your attic. Tall, pink trees quiver against a powder blue sky, reaching to the rim of the canvas only to frame the edges. You love it instantly, and she tries not to preen so obviously. It goes above your mantle, right next to her childhood photos, and you wish you could have thought of something more thoughtful or exciting than dishware. She doesn’t mind, you spend the rest of her winter holiday in a familial bliss but occasionally catch her staring at the painting with an expression so close to regret. You drive her to the airport, watch her plane take off from the car. She’s more than capable of taking care of herself but she will always be the child who fell asleep in the backseat, breathing softly as you carried her inside. 

 

_ You’re Roy, you’re in the school parking lot, it’s 2:58 PM and you’re waiting for Hero. _

Little things hit you day by day. It wasn’t this hard to show emotion on your face before. In fact, you think that once you broadcasted everything that you were feeling.  _ Whatever happened to that? _ It’s easy when you’re acting in the work you need to keep Hero and yourself comfortable but in your personal life? 

It’s hard. People’s eyes give away so much, and you never seem to be able to convey what you’re actually feeling through them. You’ve been asked before, asked so many times by friends and strangers alike, but you always tell them that you aren’t sad. Most times, you’re actually quite happy. There seemed to be a sadness, a resonating note in your soul that struck the wrong chord in people. So you take to avoiding small talk with other parents. Hero makes plenty of friends on her own, and you don’t mind sending her off to the other children’s houses. You’ve seen enough waiting in the car for her after school and know who she can stay late with and who she should meet at a park instead. You tap your fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of a song you’ve never heard and feel very alone.

 

_ You’re Roy, you’re in the cafe by the playhouse, it’s 3:18 PM and you’re on a blind date.  _

Hero means best. You know that, but that doesn’t stop the churning in your stomach. Something about your daughter trying to set you up with her best friend’s mother didn’t sit right with you. She was a nice woman, blind in one eye but filled with smiles and a sarcastic streak that you’d find charming in any other circumstance. But she is your daughter’s best friend’s mother, and that makes the sweetness sour. 

The woman-  _ Madras, her name is Madras _ \- taps out a tune you recognize but can’t remember against her tea cup. The thin veneer of politeness keeps you both from calling this a date, but it’s obvious from the way Hero shoved you into your best tie and nice pants that she was hoping this would go well. Madras rolls her eye and places a tube of lipstick that’s just a shade off from her dyed hair on the table. You accept the peace offering, smile, and steer the conversation firmly toward your children. 

 

_ You’re Roy, you’re in your living room, it’s 3:47 PM and you’re staring at the pictures on the mantle. _

There are certain memories that you are certain that you will never forget. Hero’s first day of school. Her first art exhibition. Her graduation, and the subsequent commencement ceremony. Sometimes you look back on it and wonder how anyone on earth allowed you to take care of yourself, let alone a child as bright as her. Her tuition at a top American university was paid for in full by scholarships, a full ride because of her brilliance with color and understanding on how to tap directly into feelings. She described her process to you once, how she could create something incredible at the drop of a hat. Ideas, she whispered conspiratorially to you over cups of hot chocolate and candy floss, were dangerous. They didn’t die, or age, or change at their very core. They’d eat you from the inside out if you let them, so all you could do was let them out piece by piece before they swallowed you whole. She stared at you as if expecting a response, or worse, input. You wish you knew what she was hoping for, but she smiled her sad smile and you knew you’d failed. You shake your head from the memory and sit on the couch, filling yourself up with other people’s finished ideas and forgetting your own half-completed ones.

Maybe something was wrong with you. It’d catch you at the strangest of times. You’d put on your socks and see empty space where your ankles should be, but only realize that that wasn’t right when you’d already dropped Hero off at school. You’d reach up to rub at your eyes, only to panic when your hands met skin.  _ What else would be there? What were you expecting?  _ They weren’t quite hallucinations, you decided, but they didn’t feel like your mind playing tricks on you. It was too real, too ingrained in expectations and emotions to be simply fiends of fantasy but there weren’t any memories to connect the feelings to.  

Dizzying, fantastically filled with color and the remnants of a child’s imagination. Fractures of color fill your vision and kaleidoscope into fractures of reality. Reds, greens, blues, magentas and purples- 

You turn the television off. 

 

_ You’re Roy, you’re in the playhouse’s green room, it’s 5:43 pM and you’re waiting for rehearsal to end. _

It’s been a while since Assok’s played piano, but you accept the mantle of teacher as gracefully as you can. Assok is kind enough to tell you that that isn’t very graceful at all, but they still don’t mind playing little duets and gentle melodies to pass the time. Hero hums along and presses random keys, bursting into fits of giggles each time she and Assok manage to mess you up. The two of them are a right menace, but their smiles are so bright that you forgive them before the anger can come. Hero turns your bowtie sideways and hugs you around the shoulders as you play, watching your fingers dance across the ivory keys.

She doesn’t like it when you wear ties. You figure it was because you prefer bowties yourself, but she almost fights the costume designer when she tries to put you in a regular black tie. Hero can’t explain why it’s so important to her, not in a way that you or the costumer understand, but her vehemence is so strong that you send her off to Assok’s house rather than argue. But when you look in the mirror, everything from that tie up feels wrong. You meet your own eyes and vertigo makes you sick but the show must go on and you really can’t afford to make a scene on opening night. Memories push against the static in your mind and just as you remember, they rip themselves away, then you’re on the floor with the remnants of a shattered mirror all around you. You can’t remember what was the problem in the first place. 

  
  


_ You’re RGB, you’re in Manchester, it’s 4:01 AM and you’re missing something more than time.  _


End file.
